


Gravity

by ester_potter



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Angst, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Fluff, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Smut, What-If, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25051936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ester_potter/pseuds/ester_potter
Summary: -You're skinny – Andrés remarks.-And you're dead.Andrés laughs and throws his head back. – You think so? – He peels off the wall and takes one step forward. – And yet you see me.He's wearing the last suit that Martín saw on him, the one Andrés was wearing the night he left him back at the monastery, when he broke his heart and at the same time gave him his to keep, as he went to print money in the Mint, and he’s so goddamn beautiful, he’s never been so beautiful, or maybe it's just the fact that he’s finally before him, after an eternity of death and loneliness.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 3
Kudos: 54





	Gravity

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by this scene: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6WrWlEHM2A from Angels in America.  
> I only watched the TV series two days ago and I don't know, maybe it was because of my two gay sons dancing together or maybe it was because they danced to Moon fucking River, but anyway I've been thinking about it all day yesterday so here it is.  
> The title is from a song by the Coldplay.

_“De noche sueño que tú y yo  
somos dos plantas que se elevaron juntas,  
con raíces enredadas, y que tú conoces  
la tierra y la lluvia como mi boca,  
porque de tierra y de lluvia estamos hechos.”_  
  
  
\-  Pablo Neruda*

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
After an hour spent trying to fall asleep in vain, Martín snorts noisily and gets out of bed. Palermo’s deadly hot even in the middle of the night, and the only noise coming from the wide open window is the barking of a dog in the distance. He walks in front of the mirror while leaving the room and stops, despite his conscience telling him not to. What he sees doesn’t surprise him: he’s a ghost, a shadow of himself, his skin as white as a sheet and his ribs sticking out. Once in the kitchen, he starts looking for the right poison with which to numb the pain and ease the sensation of emptiness.  
"Empty," he thinks, "everything is so empty... _I_ ’am empty. Nothing makes sense."  
He opens the fridge and glances at the bottles of vodka, scotch and tequila, which seem to stare right back at him from the empty shelves - if it weren't for a carton of milk and some apples that have already started to rot -, one by one. In the end he opts for tequila and drinks straight from the bottle, ignoring his burning throat and stomach.  
There’s a perverse feeling of peace, in the awareness of being alone in Palermo, surrounded by silence and darkness, as he should be. Given the circumstances, he knows there’s nowhere else in the world he would like to be. He misses Florence, misses it terribly much, but he doesn't even think about going back there, he _can't_ go back there, because it would be wrong. Florence is art, it’s culture, red sunsets and white marble, the Arno river flowing relentlessly as it cuts the city in two, reflecting the lights that run along both its banks. It’s an oasis where the wonders shaped by man rest unchanged in time, as modernity and frenzy surround them but don’t scratch them, on the contrary, they accentuate their splendor. Florence is home, Florence is _Andrés_.  
But Florence is still there, while Andrés is not. Andrés is dead. However, tonight is not one of those nights when Martín shouts and cries all his tears; tonight’s one of those nights when he drinks his grief away and dances barefoot around the house until he falls asleep on the sofa or on the bed, if he manages to get there. He turns around, ready to go over to the record player, but he freezes on the spot because there he is, Andrés, right in front of him, leaned with his back against the wall and his hands in his pockets. Martín hears the bottle shatter at his feet, his hand still closed with his fist even though he's no longer holding anything, and he doesn't jerk, doesn’t move.  
Only when Andrés raises a corner of his mouth in one of his usual sly smiles, Martín realizes he’s been holding his breath until that moment and finally exhales, blinking his eyelids several times. "It can't be the tequila," he thinks. "I only took a couple of sips"  
He decides he must have gone mad, there’s no other explanation, because Andrés is dead, he heard it on television and saw his body being taken away - "Away where? Where did they take him?" - in a plastic bag.  
-You're skinny – Andrés remarks.  
-And you're dead.  
Andrés laughs and throws his head back. – You think so? – He peels off the wall and takes one step forward. – And yet you see me.  
He's wearing the last suit that Martín saw on him, the one Andrés was wearing the night he left him back at the monastery, when he broke his heart and at the same time gave him his to keep, as he went to print money in the Mint, and he’s so goddamn beautiful, he’s never been so beautiful, or maybe it's just the fact that he’s finally before him, after an eternity of death and loneliness. Three steps and he could reach out and touch him. Andrés seems to read his thoughts, because he takes another step towards him and then stops again, and Martín knows it’s up to him to erase the distance between them and go to Andrés.  
-Dance with me –says the latter.  
Martín’s eyes fill with tears and he swallows to suppress the knot in his throat. – There was a time when I would have said yes right away... But I don't think I'm in the mood – He wipes the tears away and clenches his fists. To his surprise, his voice doesn't tremble. – Are you real? Or am I dreaming?  
-You get to decide it – Andrés reaches out to him. – Dance with me, _querido_.  
He doesn't remember putting on Frank Sinatra's vinyl – actually, he was convinced he had left it in Florence – and yet the notes of _Moon River_ fill the room, and Martín goes to Andrés as he always did, as if he was pushed by a force of gravity he can’t control. He has so many things to say, questions to ask, mistakes to hold against him, but he forgets everything the moment he feels his friend's hand behind his back and the other one lifting his own and resting it on his chest. Martín lets him do it and brings the other hand behind the back of Andrés’ neck, resting his forehead against his. They turn in circles on the spot, rocking slowly. It's not really 'dancing', but it's perfect just like this, it’s perhaps the most intimate moment they've ever shared.  
They breathe on each other with their noses almost touching, and Martín doesn’t dare to open his eyes, not wanting to break that bubble of serenity even though he knows that there’s nothing real, that it’s _impossible_ , as Andrés himself had told him.  
-I missed you – he just whispers.  
Andrés’ warm breath against his face reassures him, and when he finally looks at him he meets those dark and deep eyes into which he used to sink with joy, the same eyes that get hopeless in front of him right now, their light dying down.  
-I'm so sorry – he says. Martín looks at him questioningly, he lowers his gaze on the hand he holds on Andrés' chest and realizes there’s a dense, dark red liquid covering it quickly. The stain spreads on the floor around them and Martín jumps, his eyes wide open and his mouth trembling; he fights the impulse to pull back and tightens his grip on Andrés’, whose body’s consistency becomes softer, muffled.  
-No...  
-Can you forgive me? – asks Andrés, stroking his knuckles with his thumb.  
-Don't leave me – Martín touches him everywhere, his face and hair, his shoulders, his chest covered with red spots and his shaking hands. – Don't leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t...  
Andrés vanishes as he had appeared; the music stops and Martín stands alone in that empty apartment in Palermo, surrounded by silence and darkness, as he should be. Just like before.  
  
  
  
His own laments wake him up: he had fallen asleep with all his weight on his left arm, which is now throbbing sorely, his pillow’s wet with sweat and two arms are wrapped around him from behind.  
-You’re okay – Andrés hushes him softly. – It was just a nightmare.  
Martín shifts his gaze from one point to another in the room, as if to make sure that he really is in Palawan, and above all that he’s with Andrés. He turns his head just enough to look at him and then rests his cheek on the pillow, turning away from him again.  
-Sorry, – he sighs, – I didn't mean to wake you.  
He trusts that tiredness will prevent Andrés from asking him about the dream, but he knows it won't do, and the proof comes right away: - Is it about your father?  
As much as Martín hates to admit it, his dad had scarred him to the point that he still has nightmares about him years later. He could lie but Andrés would notice, and he doesn't even try to change the subject, because he knows he won't rest until he gives him an answer.  
-You were dead – he confesses without turning to look at him.  
-... Oh.  
-Yes – he says it abruptly as if Andrés had done him wrong, and tries to drive that unmotivated feeling away. – You had gone to the Mint with Sergio, and you died there. Your ghost came to haunt me. One moment you were there and... – Andrés' hand slips under his right arm until it reaches his and holds it tight. – And then you were gone.  
Martín doesn’t get an answer for a while and closes his eyes, tightening the grip on the other man’s hand. After what seems to be an eternity, Andrés leans forward and kisses his neck repeatedly. – I’m here, though.  
At that contact, Martín lets out a faint "Mm-mm" and finally feels the tension slip away.  
-We went to the Mint _together_ – continues Andrés.  
-Mm-mm.  
-We did everything that my pain-in-the-ass brother’s plan entailed and stole a billion euros.  
-900 million – Martín retorts. – We would have reached the billion if _someone_ hadn't physically taken Nairobi away from the machines.  
-All that power had intoxicated her – chuckles Andrés. – And besides, we were running out of time. Whose side your on?  
Martín smiles at the memory of the adrenaline of their last moments at the Mint, the sense of camaraderie he had discovered to feel – not unsurprisingly –for his companions, and of the liberating scream raised from the boat when they reached international waters.  
Martín lies on his back with Andrés on top of him, moving gracefully like a cat and raising a corner of his mouth while his eyes emanate that light of life and adventure without which Martín discovered he couldn’t live, fifteen years earlier. As he slowly caresses the hair that falls on Andrés’ forehead, he finds himself thinking for the third time in a month that he should cut it and for the third time he puts the thought aside, telling himself that it’s worth postponing it, if it means he gets to pass his fingers through it as much as he wants, disheveling and playing with it like he’s doing now.  
-I don't know what I would have done if you died.  
-You would have been just fine.  
-Shut up.  
-You'd have suffered, yes – admits Andrés. – You'd have been desperate and tried to drink yourself to death, but I really think you'd have got over it eventually. Maybe you'd have even fallen in love again.  
The very idea made Martín laugh out loud, despite the bitterness.  
-I mean it – Andrés draw circles on Martín's chest with his fingers, surrounding his nipple and squeezing it lightly between his thumb and forefinger. – You’d be a very sexy 40-year-old bachelor.  
-But I wouldn't be able to be with anybody anyway – says Martín, following the hypnotic movements of Andrés' fingers with his eyes. – Not even if I wanted to.  
Andrés smiles skeptically at him and before he can make another shrewd objection, Martín slides his hand from his forehead to the back of his neck, grabbing it firmly but without hurting him. – I could never love anyone – he repeats firmly. – You understand? _No one_. Anyone else would always come second. They could be the perfect men... but they’d never be you.  
Andrés, the smug bastard, doesn't even bother to pretend he’s taking his time to fully enjoy the effect that those words have on him, and when he decides his ego has been fueled enough he trails his fingertips over every inch of skin he meets underneath. – Well, that's not something you'll ever have to worry about – he says, pretending indolence. – We're in Palawan and there's no one in the world who knows it except Sergio... and his better half, apparently.  
Martin sneers. It still doesn't seem true to him that the inspector who fought tooth and nail to put them in jail fell in love with Sergio and joined him on the island almost a year earlier.  
-We're all fine – Andrés takes a breath and stares at him. – And the cure’s working.  
-What did you say?  
-I didn't want to tell you until I was sure – continues Andrés, extending his hand in front of the other's face. – I started noticing a couple of months ago. It seems to me that it’s improved, don't you think?  
Martín lifts himself up a bit with his elbows and keeps his eyes fixed on the other’s fingers, looking for the slightest spasm, a tremor, something.  
-The balance is better, too – During their first year in the Philippines, Andrés used to stumble a lot, even with no obstacles in his way, and sometimes he’d even collapse on the floor after getting up from the bed or the couch, scaring Martín and Sergio – and himself, above all – to death.  
-It's true – Martín admits faintly. – You never tripped again...  
-You were right – adds Andrés with emotion. – And Sergio was right too. I had to try. I didn't want to deceive you two, and I didn't want to deceive myself, but... Fuck, it really works.  
Martín can't take his eyes off of him, convinced he's dreaming again. The lack of a reaction visibly disappoints Andrés. – Don't you believe me? – When Martín's look finally meets his, his voice becomes hoarse with desire. – Doesn't it seem real to you?  
Martín takes the hint and his penis twitches with interest ever so lightly, but Andrés feels it clearly since he’s stretched between his legs. – I don't know – Martín shrugs. – It seems too good to be true.  
-I understand – Andrés nods and moves further down the bed, caressing his thighs distractedly. He takes his time as always and finally pulls Martín’s underwear down to his knees; he squeezes his buttocks with both hands and traces along the crack with a finger, slowly and inexorably, up and down, without penetrating him. – What about this? This isn’t real enough for you either?  
Martín squints his eyes and bites his lip, noisily breathing in through his nose. – You can do better.  
That incitement seems to score and suddenly there are two fingers are slipping into him at once, their path already loose and partially slippery from the night before. Martín clutches the sheets in his hands and thanks God that there are no neighbors within miles, as he lets himself go in encouragements and curses. Andrés's fingers twist inside him and move in circles; a third finger joins them and Martín bends a leg to make more room. When Andrés finds his target, the other starts moving his hips to meet his movements, his cock now fully erect in front of the older man, which licks his lips at the sight and proceeds to lick it from base to tip. He repeats the operation on each side like it’s an ice cream cone, making satisfied moans that vibrate on Martín's skin.  
Less than two minutes later, Martín pulls himself up and takes off his underwear; Andrés seems to understand and brings himself against theheadboard, lowering his boxers and wetting his erection with lube. Martín doesn't give him time to finish the job and places his knees at Andrés' sides; he holds his shoulders as he slowly lowers himself on his cock and Andrés wraps his arms around his waist.  
Martín waits a few seconds to get used to the sensation, then starts lifting up and lowering down repeatedly, while Andrés snaps forward almost angrily. They come together and remain panting over each other in silence, which is one of Martín’s favorite things in the world, but he’s also perfectly aware of how much Andrés doesn't like that sticky sensation, so he gets up as soon as they catch their breath. Andrés keeps him still instead, his hands still on his lower back.  
-Where do you think you're going? – he murmurs, reaching one hand towards the nightstand and grabbing a couple of handkerchiefs to dry their stomachs. Martín lets him do it and once he's finished he wraps his arms around his neck and curls up against him, sincerely satisfied and _content_.  
-I love you so much – he says.  
He feels Andrés' smile against his neck. – If I really heal, I want us to do this every day.  
Martín bursts out laughing, shaking his head. – Don’t we already do it?  
-Three times a day, then.  
-Five on weekends.  
-Don’t overestimate me now – laughs Andrés, pretending to be outraged. – I’m not that young anymore.  
Martín kisses his temple soundly.  
-Speak for yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> * “At night I dream that you and I are two plants that grew together, roots entwined, and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth, since we are made of earth and rain.”
> 
> I miss Florence. I miss it so, so, so much. Okay, I just needed to write it down.  
> Anyway there wasn't supposed to be any smut in my original idea of this fic, but it seemed fair to me to add it since we're probably never going to see any of it in the series (not between the two of them anyway)... So yeah, I guess I'll spend my summer writing about these two happily fucking on every single surface they can find.


End file.
